


In the Waiting Time

by lisaroquin



Series: from the ashes [1]
Category: The Magnificent Seven (2016)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-03
Updated: 2017-01-03
Packaged: 2018-09-14 11:57:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9180514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lisaroquin/pseuds/lisaroquin
Summary: Their third night in Rose Creek, Goody decides to tellthatstory. With whiskey taking the edge off impending doom for all of them, the two of them couldn't be more obvious and none of the others seem to care, Billy waits out Goody's exorcism of a ghost by outrageous story and makes up his mind on staying in Rose Creek no matter what.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [empires](https://archiveofourown.org/users/empires/gifts).



> The prompts, they just about defeated me entirely, but I got…this and it has promptish elements? Which is more a scene in between two longer pieces both years before and in the aftermath AU of Rose Creek. So there is that, if those pieces ever get finished, the prompts spawned a lot of disjointed writing that may or may not be stories one day but dang nothing wanted to actually follow one of the prompts. I tried.
> 
>  
> 
>  **warnings** : the only standout thing is the kill tally of the serial killing rapist that is the subject of Goody & Billy's unconventional bounty taking and that is honestly just a listing of totals. Also, Billy is billed as 'the assassin', passing one or two sentence mention of him making use of those skills. Nothing graphic of any kind in this but there are references/mentions.

It was their third night in Rose Creek.  Progress was being made in setting up defenses--the town defending itself was...well. Less thought about that the better. Hopefully the trenches and blasts set would even odds a bit by taking out a good deal of Bogue's men.  Billy honestly didn't know how it was possible for the majority of men in town not to be able to hit the broad side of a barn with a rifle at fifteen yards. Yes, they were farmers, but they couldn't _all_ be city greenhorns before they came here and became farmers.  A rifle was a survival tool for farmers. Predator going after livestock, sick animal that needed put down, a deer to replenish meat supply for the family.  Their complete inability to shoot was impossibly against all odds.

 

 

 

They were making far more progress on the defenses, plans and a very good start of digging, everyone in the town and the surrounding farms that had stayed were there at dawn and had spent the day working right down to the youngest, including a handful of women with babies and toddlers in a sling on their chest or their hip. Little ones four, five, six years old carrying away buckets of dirt until they were too tired to do more than curl up and collapse in a tired sweaty heap like a pile of puppies. Their determination and willingness to fight for what was theirs far outstripped their men's ability to even _hold_ a gun. Every last living soul in town doing what bit they could without hesitation. That was what had Billy willing to stay, to cast his lot with this town and its rather hopeless cause.

 

 

Everyone was talking and carrying on, laughing, Billy lifted his attention from his plate long enough to steal the untouched piece of cornbread off Goody's plate, tucking it into the waiting handkerchief in his pocket and wrapping it with one hand. Goody would need something to settle his stomach in the morning since he was drinking his supper.  Billy eyed Goody's plate, he was full, too full to finish Goody's food. This was the third time he'd eaten that day, not just coffee and maybe a piece of hardtack in the morning and some bit of something at night like they so often had on the road. He elbowed Goody. There wasn't too much left, Goody needed to finish his own supper tonight.

 

 

Goody huffed but stopped talking--and drinking--long enough to finish off the half dozen or so spoonfuls of beans, proving he was still hungry enough even if he was doing so much talking and taking the edge off hunger with a belly full of whiskey.  Goody picked at his food too often until Billy had eaten his fill, handing half his own meal over with disturbing regularity if Billy let him. Billy generally solved that problem by giving Goody the lion's share and hunching around his own plate so Goody didn't get the best view of the uneven amount when Billy served them both camping out. That way it evened out they both got roughly half of whatever they had. 

 

 

Goody might have never dreamt of hunger growing up, something Billy knew often enough, sometimes simply by circumstance when he was very young on his step-father's ship, food going bad before they got to the next port, storm so bad that the water barrels had been damaged, food and water were very carefully watched and rationed commodities at sea, even for a Captain's family when the Captain insisted on keeping to the same rations as his crew. Even in circumstance that things got a bit dire the last few days before reaching port the crew of his father's ship were loyal and did not argue or complain about making sure the Captain's wife and small children ate first. They'd never taken advantage though, his mother careful to eat just enough and give them no more than they absolutely had to have to make sure there was enough to go about for the crew to stay healthy and do their jobs. It was not a regular occurrence but not rare and isolated either. There was always a chance of storm or doldrums that made a voyage take considerably longer than it was expected to be. He had not been desperately hungry when he was small, but being _aware_ of food supplies had been drilled into him all the same.

 

 

Later with his first master, food had to be _earned_ and too often not more than a quarter cup of rice for the day because his first master was a harsh taskmaster. His second master had withheld food enough to keep him weak, and so hungry he willingly ate the drugged food because he was so hungry had to have _something_ to eat and he had promised Ting to live. Goody had learned hunger though, during the War. And had developed the habit of making sure everyone else at least got a few bites before he ate with his men then. A habit that carried onto Billy, and in the first year they'd traveled together fell in the habit of filling his plate when they were in towns and eating only a portion, leaving it for Billy to finish. They were usually more careful of their habits, even the most mundane as to how they often got through a meal, but they hadn't since they'd joined up with Chisholm. Goody's trust of the man radiated off him so completely, Billy relaxed too, it made no sense to doubt Goody's judgement after all these years.

 

 

Billy settled back content and reached in his vest pocket for his cigarette case and matches. He pulled one of the cigarettes from behind the paper that separated them out in the case, one of the ones which had opium laced in the tobacco and settled back in his chair as he lit it. Goody's arm went around the back of his chair, thumb brushing against the topmost of Billy's arm. Leaning in close, too close if they were anywhere else, with any other group. But Goody was leaning in Chisholm's direction, which had his chin nearly on Billy's shoulder, his animated gesturing a little more loose and constant with the whiskey in him. 

 

 

He managed to light the cigarette with Goody's face only a breath or two from his, Goody's laughter nearly blowing out the match, and the fool's hand nearly getting burned when Billy shook out the match--Goody's hand suddenly there and gesturing to emphasize something.  It said a lot as to how practiced he was at lighting a cigarette around Goody's face and hands that not only was the cigarette lit but neither of them had a little burn on a finger to show for Goody's distracted chatter.

 

 

Billy took a deep drag, letting the smoke fill his lungs and held the cigarette out. Goody took it seamlessly, chin still almost on Billy's shoulder leaning into, half around him to talk to Chisholm. The arm around the back of his chair shifted a little more firmly against Billy's back, the thumb at the end of that arm traced a little circle against Billy's shoulder, absentminded and unthinking. Billy let himself lean back and drift just slightly toward Goody.  Most of the townspeople had taken their aching bodies to bed, tucking their equally exhausted children into pallets here and there, wherever they were bunking for the night.  It was late, their group had been the last to come in to eat, going around the town, checking progress, comparing notes.

 

  
"Did I ever tell you about the time we took a bounty right from under the McClaren outfit in San Francisco?"

 

 

Billy took the cigarette back taking another deep drag and raised his eyebrow at Goody.

 

 

"Oh hush, Billy, it's a good story."

 

 

"Mmmm," Billy agreed with a dubious note to his voice. _That_ was the story Goody wanted to tell? He wondered what he missed not following the conversation. His English was excellent, but Vasquez' accent was just enough to make the words a little difficult at times, Horne's voice was high and wheezy and not the easiest to hear in the din made by the men around the table. Faraday talked more than Goody and twice as loud with little sense or anything worth hearing out of his mouth. Red Harvest wasn't speaking at all and Chisholm's voice so low and soft-spoken at the table that Billy only heard him if he listened closely, especially with the ear that was bad toward Chisholm, more than half of his hearing in that ear lost when he was eleven and too close to canon fire. He'd let the conversation fall away in favor of calming his mind and eating his food.

 

 

 

Faraday burst in squawking and demanding to know how Goody took out McClarens.

 

 

 

"I didn't take out McClarens, I took a bounty out from under them, and all I needed was the shapely turn of a Robicheaux ankle. I have fine ankles."

 

 

Billy's other eyebrow raised to join the first. He took another drag off their cigarette.

 

 

"Billy! You must admit I have fine ankles."

 

 

"Lovely, Goody," Billy managed flatly, wanting to laugh and shake his head. "Very lovely ankles."

 

 

Goody reached for their cigarette and gave Billy a look daring him to declare Goody had had enough.

 

 

"You got one over on the McClarens with your _ankles?”_ Faraday was well into his bottle of whiskey, a little louder and a little more obnoxious with each drink. "McClarens are right there with the Pinkertons!"

 

 

 

Goody wasn't getting out of this story. Billy just shook his head. Telling Chisholm was one thing, forgetting their very obnoxious audience member in Faraday was another. He took the cigarette back from Goody who shifted in his chair, leaning forward onto the table managing quite well to give the appearance he was hanging onto the back of Billy's chair for balance even if he wasn't. The hand that had been on Billy's shoulder now toying with the hair at the back of his neck.

 

 

Billy took a deep drag off the cigarette and exhaled with a sigh _. “Sit back. Sit still or you will fall on the floor."_

 

 

Goody settled back grinning widely, leaning into Billy's side, arm around the back of his chair fingers absently tracing up and down Billy's upper arm as he took their cigarette back.

 

 

"What'd he say? Ain't no one speaking Chiner here, he should stick with English, know his is just fine."

 

 

"Billy is Korean, not Chinese. And after nine years I've learned more than a few words of the language he grew up speaking." Goody said smoothly, haughty and arrogant.  The name on Billy's warrant was Chinese, a badly mangled attempt at his own. Korean was paper thin distinction. But the picture on his warrant not the best and 'Chinese' was listed. Korean had always been a distinction that caused him nothing but misery, but even that Goody managed to turn into something...tolerable. It hadn't been Korean that he'd spoken but Chisholm was the only one who might realize that.

 

 

Billy had been born in Korea yes, and left it in the arms of his fleeing Catholic-convert mother scarcely counting his age in weeks rather than merely days. Whatever his mother had originally named him, had been changed by his Chinese sea captain step-father. He grew up speaking Shanghainese not Korean, though his mother had taught him the language as well. That he was Korean hadn't mattered, he was his step-father's oldest son and as treasured and loved as the four children Billy's mother went on to bear after him. Korean had meant nothing until he was eleven, not old enough to hold his father's ship and modest wealth on his own and a greedy relative of his father had no use for a Korean boy, selling Billy to his first master, mostly as revenge because his step-father's elderly and ill father had managed to arrange a marriage and get Billy's mother and the younger children out of the bastard's reach. Billy had been the sacrificial lamb to keep the bastard from attempting to go after Billy's mother, half-Chinese little sisters and baby brother. Korean had been nothing but an abstract that rarely made his consciousness until he was eleven, and then it was the excuse to make his life hell.  Goody had turned it about and used Korean as the excuse that the warrant for Billy couldn't possibly be for him.

 

 

Faraday was distracted by something enough to make noise, and generally be obnoxious. Billy turned his mostly deaf ear to the younger man and looked at Goody. Goody had that broad cat that ate the canary grin that was entirely up to no good.

 

 

"Why are you lookin' at me like I'm goin' to get us in trouble, cher?" Goody asked. Whiskey had thickened his accent, making it lazy and heavy like the humid air of where he'd grown up in Louisiana, losing the refined education with the edges of words melting away.

 

 

"No idea," Billy said dryly, taking the almost gone cigarette back for one last drag before handing it to Goody to finish. "Nine years’ experience, maybe?"

 

 

"You wound me, cher, you truly do," Goody laughed. "Here, saved this back for you." Goody leaned away, with more coordination than his leaning and carelessly invading Billy's space made seem possible, reaching for something under his chair. A small flask shaped bottle was sat on the table in front of Billy.

 

 

 

Billy snorted and looked away from Goody, reaching for the bottle in front of him. He slid down in his chair just a bit, leaning his head back against Goody's arm after he took a long drink from the bottle.  Goody's leg pressed hard against Billy's own under the table and he leaned forward again just a little as Faraday's yammering took on another level of demand. Vasquez chimed in wanting to hear the story too.

 

 

Billy caught Red Harvest _watching._ He stopped his bottle for less than a blink in Red Harvest's direction as he took another drink. Chisholm had to know what they were to each other upon clapping eyes on Goody again, how Goody acted with him. The youngest and oldest of their number both seemed to understand fully well, even before tonight and Goody being so blatant. He let himself relax into Goody, lean into his side just a bit. Goody for his part shifted and did his best to gather Billy close and continued his arguing with Faraday he truly did have lovely ankles.

 

 

Billy nudged Goody to get on with the story and quit arguing. He would like to go to bed.

 

 

"Comme te veux, mon couer," Goody murmured.

 

 

"Any of you going to bother to carry on a full conversation in English?"

 

 

"¿Por qué deberíamos? Es demasiado divertido escuchar a su borracho aullido, guerito," Vasquez laughed.

 

 

Horne said something, Latin Billy was almost sure. Hard to hear with the direction Horne was sitting even if the table had quieted enough now, Horne's voice so high and wheezy, but Latin, and familiar in its rhythm. Familiar enough it was likely some proverb slightly twisted by the way the old man's mind had drifted--from age, from too many losses, from too many years alone in the wilderness it was hard to say, but Horne's mind wandered just a bit.

 

 

Chisholm's voice carried this time, slightly louder, slightly clearer with both Goody and Faraday shut up for the moment. "Si les souhaits étaient des chevaux, les mendiants monteraient."

 

 

Red Harvest said something and Chisholm broke out in a deep guffawing laugh.

 

 

Billy nudged Goody again, with a lift of his chin in Faraday's direction. They'd struck a deep nerve with the teasing, too deep when they needed Faraday, needed everyone to pull off the miracle they were hoping for when Bogue showed up.

 

 

"And what did the youngest of our intrepid brethren have to say so funny, Sam?" Goody asked, smoothly turning conversation away from Faraday’s building upset.

 

 

"He hoped you shaved, your beard wouldn't go so well with a pretty dress." Chisholm said, whether that was actually what Red Harvest said or not was debatable. Likely was, but Chisholm watched them all closely and had to notice the slice of hurt that cut through Faraday's eyes for a moment.

 

 

"You dressed as a woman to get the bounty?"

 

 

"Indeed, I did, and yes, Billy shaved me, every whisker, my face was still smooth as a baby's bottom when we took Cutler in."

 

 

Red Harvest tilted his head and cupped his hands in front of his chest more to make a point but teasingly obscene all the same.

 

 

"Oatmeal," Billy answered flatly.

 

 

Goody laughed at the looks the others gave him.

 

 

"Oatmeal?" Horne's voice came loudly enough this time. "How on earth do you make tits outta oatmeal?"

 

 

"Sew the oatmeal into handkerchiefs about the size and shape you want—uncooked, of course--does a lovely job. Soft but solid enough, fills out a chemise and corsetry quite well. Doesn't get lumpy like bunched up socks or some nonsense, sew the cloth right it keeps its shape quite well, weight works well to have everything in place where it should be rather than climbing up with every movement." Goody explained.

 

 

"Oatmeal is much better than rice. Ting used rice once," Billy said. "Rice doesn't look as good with thinner material, get a grain at an odd angle poking out."

 

 

Goody stilled and looked at Billy with worried concern. Billy smiled just a little, soft and tired. Goody relaxed understanding, leaning to almost curl around Billy, as much as he could sitting at the table no matter how close their chairs were together it wasn't quite possible but Goody gave it a try. Ting was haunting tonight, but it was a kind haunting. It ached but the thought of how much she would enjoy this conversation and how much she would like these men made him want to smile. He could almost feel her smiling approval which eased the aching loss of her a little tonight. Even after so many years Ting was a missing limb giving phantom pain. His first master had been an assassin, bought Billy to train as an apprentice and Ting only days later. Billy had been eleven, not quite twelve. Ting had been just barely nine. The two of them had spent a decade not more than arms reach apart with Master Zhu. Both of them had been trained unrelentingly by their master. They ate together, learned together, slept together, suffered together, grew together into the perfect unbreakable team only sundered by Ting's death.

 

 

"Who is Ting?" Faraday asked with a frown. This he caught, that Ting was someone of importance, not the implications of how Goody had been dressed to have his 'shapely ankles' shown off.

 

 

"The woman I slept beside for ten years." Billy answered quietly, even if she'd barely counted as a woman the last few years of that decade, and he a man little longer, both still children when they became Master Zhu's apprentices and clung to each other in what few hours of sleep they were allotted. "She died in childbirth, her hips too narrow even without the baby was crosswise inside her, neither survived. She stood about to my nose, but lean and narrow from head to toe, didn't take much for her to dress as a boy if we had a job, dressing as a courtesan took more work, she was always straight and lean and strong, not much for curves. She was so beautiful though."

 

 

"You had a pretty wife and you end up with that one all but sitting in each other’s laps?" Faraday sounded confused.

 

 

"He's very pretty in a dress."

 

 

"Why thank you, cher," Goody laughed.

 

  
"Ting would like him. He would have us both to contend with if she were still alive."

 

 

"Would that I did for your sake, Li Jie." Goody whispered roughly in his ear, using the name his Chinese step-father had given him as an infant not the Billy he'd used these last nine years. "We'll be with her someday soon enough. Even if we get in a tussle or two over you."

 

 

Billy's hand dropped beneath the table and rubbed Goody's leg before resting on his thigh, settling a little more against Goody and taking another drink from the small bottle of whiskey. There would be no tussles when that day came, Ting would welcome them both with open arms, hold Goody close and not let him be a fool if Goody joined her first.

 

 

"All right, quit makin' calf's eyes at your man and tell the damn story already, Robicheaux!" Faraday demanded.

 

 

Surprisingly it was Vasquez who looked stunned. Billy was more than a little stunned himself that it was Vasquez, not Faraday, who hadn't noticed them. Perhaps, though, it was more stunned that Faraday wanted his damn story of Robicheaux ankles taking a bounty out from under McClaren noses rather than giving a first let alone second thought to Goody and Billy being lovers. It was hard to tell. He'd known the man only days and Vasquez was almost as wary and feral as Billy himself had been when he made the original agreement to ride with Goody a while.

 

 

"Tell the story, then we're going to bed." Billy huffed, his head leaning back against Goody's shoulder, eyes drifting shut. His fingers slid between Goody's legs, tracing out words in Chinese high up along the inner seam of his trousers. Goody cleared his throat warningly, not understanding the patterns Billy traced, words of love, and of what he'd much rather be doing than waiting for this silly story to be done with, but the teasing movements of Billy's fingers high on his inner thigh made the point well enough, even if Goody didn't understand what the patterns meant. Even with the warning noise, Goody shifted a bit, legs a little further apart that Billy had an easier time of tracing filthy thoughts on Goody's inner thigh.

 

 

It had started at a bar in San Francisco about three and a half years before, with a friendly game of cards and an almost friendly wager with a McClaren by the name of Joe Dunbar.  They'd been in the city following a rumor they'd heard of something else entirely.  Goody glossed over that. Billy's nephew had indeed been San Francisco. They'd sent the foolish boy home to China--with the winnings from that bet and the bounty they'd collected, Billy assuring him he was just fine where he was. A letter had been waiting the last time they'd been through the city seven months ago, sent to a man there to hold for Billy if he showed up again. Boy had used the money to get himself a fine wife, one with perfect Lotus feet and a high standing family even if he was a quarter Korean. Billy's sisters and brother each sending their notes he wasn't forgotten and very much honored for his sacrifice which gave them the chance at the lives they had. Billy was surprised they remembered much of him--his little sisters eight, five and an infant months’ old in their mother's arms, his little brother just turned three when Billy was forced from the family, taken from their mother by circumstance, the sacrifice to give the others a chance.

 

 

Goody left out any mention of Chen Li Song and his rather foolish quest to find a long-lost uncle and only miraculous chance he did. Goody carried on long enough about the wager, and the 'friendly' card game to earn a sharp pinch on his inner thigh though.

 

 

"Cutler--" Chisholm broke in. "Albert Cutler?"

 

 

"The very one." Goody agreed.

 

 

"WHAT IN THE HELL WERE YOU THINKING, GOODNIGHT! DO YOU HAVE A LICK OF SENSE?" Chisholm shouted. "DON'T TELL ME YOU GOT CLOSE ENOUGH TO BE IN THE SAME ROOM AS THAT SON OF A BITCH DRESSED LIKE A WOMAN!"

 

 

"Who is this Cutler? What did he do that he had a bounty?" Vasquez demanded warily, no doubt once again questioning the wisdom sitting at a table with not just the bounty hunter that blackmailed him into coming along but two more besides with a price on his head.

 

 

"You go through the warrants and bounties from fifteen different states and territories, Albert Cutler raped and killed at least thirty women."

 

 

"Thirty-seven women raped to death, as well as fifteen men and twenty-two children killed who were in the way of raping the women to death. Another thirty men killed just to kill. Horse thieving, robbery, other things too," Billy clarified. "He needed to die."

 

 

"Indeed, he did, cher. And McClarens pride themselves on bringing their man in alive," Goody agreed. "There was no way we were leaving that one to be taken in by a McClaren."

 

 

Chisholm growled and muttered something too low for Billy to catch on his bad side.

 

  
"I saw firsthand the horrors the Giant of Rock Island not only was capable of but enjoyed. I knew very well what I was contending with." Goody shot back, voice filled with rage and agony. "He's the bastard that hobbled Tiberius!"

 

 

Billy's hand stilled on Goody's thigh as too many things slotted into place that should have long before.  He'd had all the pieces, really it was only on how off kilter Chen Li Song had him then that Billy hadn't put the pieces together.  Goody shifted, pulling Billy even closer, cheek against Billy's temple, Billy's back half on Goody's chest rather than the back of his own chair. A sigh that might have almost been "Cher" escaped Goody's lips.   Billy's hand squeezed Goody's thigh.

 

 

Horne wheezed out something. Goody's answer clarified the words well enough. "Tiberius was my cousin, my Oncle Vincent's only child. Oncle Vincent and Tante Azalia had given up on children years before Tiberius came along. He and I were only weeks apart in age and inseparable growing up. Far more my brother than Deliverance in so many ways, but then again, Del is fifteen, almost sixteen years older than I am."

 

 

Faraday wrinkled up his nose. "Your brother's name is Deliverance?"

 

 

"Yes."

 

 

"Lord, what are your sister's names, if you have any?"

 

 

"Penitence, Charity, Faith and Temperance. Penny was the eldest, a couple years older than Del, then the rest of the girls, I was the youngest. Penny passed on before I had much recollection of her. Faith died during the War."

 

 

"Giant?" Vasquez questioned.

 

 

"Albert Cutler stood six foot ten inches in his socks and weighed nearly four hundred pounds, not a bit of that fat. I only stood to the man's shoulder, touch over. You, Sam, Horne or Faraday would likely have only reached his chin. He had a rather marked preference for tall, sturdy statuesque women, women the height and size of any of us at this table. Preferably closer to Mr. Horne's size but..."

 

 

"Not going to find many women Horne's size," Vasquez said slightly wide eyed.

 

 

Goody shrugged.

 

 

Billy made a little huff of protest at his moving backrest.  His hand slid just a fraction of an inch higher and nudged against Goody's balls, reminding him Billy had other plans. Goody moved his shoulder again, just a sharp little twitch that was a warning to behave. Billy did, letting his hand lie still on Goody’s leg, grounding him, and relaxed into Goody just a little more, letting him get on with his storytelling.

 

 

"A delicate flower such as myself was going to be too much to resist since Cutler was several months from raping the last poor woman to death, at least of his preferred type."

 

 

Faraday and Vasquez were both choking on sniggers at Goody being a 'delicate flower'.

 

 

"I'll have you know that Billy is the finest of ladies’ maids! I was absolutely stunning!”

 

 

Billy just sighed and took a long swallow of his whiskey. Goody had an audience and wasn't going to shut up until the reminders of his time at Rock Island were settled.  Albert Cutler was a victory that soothed the ghosts though, and Goody was a consummate storyteller.

 

 

Billy had negotiated the week at the whorehouse, one that was a bit more than most in the extent it served its clientele and often enough drew a few passersby in the alley behind it, watching the windows of the half dozen second floor windows facing the alley. Big bay windows, expensive and ridiculous facing the alley as they did. But guards on the alley took a couple dollars, and those in the shadows were left to watch the occasional woman's silhouette through sheer lace. It had only taken a little asking to find out that Cutler had bought several Chinese whores and basically raped them to death. Crib girls and diseased or pregnant or both, at that, though Cutler was evidently not bright enough to figure out the diseased part.  No one was bothered by dead crib girls, especially not when they were bought and paid for before Cutler hauled them off to their eventual deaths. Billy hadn't counted them in the total that Cutler had been wanted for, because Cutler hadn't quite committed a crime with the crib girls. That was what they had been bought for.

 

 

Cutler had had some trouble with several of the whorehouses in San Francisco, sating himself by buying crib girls outright after being barred at the door of several establishments. He hadn't dared the whorehouse Billy and Goody had picked, not until word was deliberately spread of the new ‘girl’. High end, known for delicate beauties of all sorts--no matter what the variety of services offered, it was not a place that Cutler could have easily afforded and certainly not known for whores that leaned toward his preferred height and size.  The owner of the whorehouse they laid their trap in was more than willing to have them, would have been willing to have them serve a few more...differently inclined clientele on a regular basis if they'd been interested in the job offer.  It had been more than worth the owner's loss on the room and the time the whores spent on giggling over Goody and Billy watching the work the transformation took.

 

 

Billy had done nearly a dozen jobs during that week.  Master Zhu's Korean Apprentice might not be Chinese, but Master Zhu had a reputation that was inching on legend so many years after his death. The Korean willing to entertain job offers was not to be passed up by those requiring such, and able to afford such, in Chinatown.  Even if a few were personally affronted that a Master Assassin of the near legendary status of Master Zhu had passed on his skills to a Korean.  (Even of those who realized Ting had existed never credited her as anything more than a pretty prop and bed warmer. It was too far beyond comprehension that Master Zhu had not taken one final apprentice, but two--a Korean and an orphan girl bought out of servitude scrubbing floors in a brothel. Ting was too beautiful to have been scrubbing floors too much longer when Master Zhu had bought her even if she had still been so young.)

 

 

Chen Li Song was sent home with a very healthy nest egg from the kills Billy had made that week.  And from Goody's time at the brothel.  The madam hadn't had a problem with absolutely no one laying a finger on Goody. They established 'Grace' easily enough including runners sent with invitations--Grace had bookings for two months when they took down Cutler.

 

 

Goody was having entirely too much fun making Red Harvest’s eyebrows raise higher and higher. Making Vasquez choke and huff and bark out a laugh or too. Making Faraday howl and complain and demand further explanations. Making Horne wheeze out an occasional “Shit, boy, you’re just plain crazy!” or “I’ll say a prayer for you tonight, I will.”

 

 

“Exactly what kind of story is this, Goodnight!” Chisholm shouted when Goody had just a bit too much fun making Faraday squirm over a customer that Grace had show up nightly for a spanking.

 

 

Word of a new whore at such a well-known establishment made the rounds, even if that particular ‘whore’ didn’t do the typical ‘whoring’ had breakfast, lunch and early dinners with older gentleman who likely weren’t…up for a whore’s services anyway but enjoyed intelligent company who could discuss books and business and politics.  “Grace’s” back-walking had three or four there every day Goody had been Grace. Though Goody credited Billy for that skill and insisted he was far better at working a back into alignment by walking on it.

 

 

Goody had pulled that trigger, repeatedly. Both Cutler’s ankles and knees had been shot, dead center to shatter them. The fifth shot basically castrated Cutler.  The McClaren man couldn’t argue that Cutler hadn’t been brought in alive. He had been, died a week later of what was officially claimed infected wounds. In actuality it had been an overdose of medicines that should never go together when Billy slipped into his guarded room at the doctor’s house.  Chisholm and the others were left to believe that Goody had made a single kill shot, not torture shots, Goody hadn’t elaborated on the flat, cold, “And I shot the bastard” he summed up the confrontation with.

 

 

“There were practically riots and a mob wanting to lynch Cutler at the doctor’s when it was found out I was leaving town, too traumatized to stay by the man.” Goody ended with a flutter of his eyelashes and a viper-ready-to-strike grin in Faraday’s direction, waiting for the younger man to open his mouth and set off the hair trigger Goody had put himself on telling that tale.

 

 

“Story’s over. Bed.” Billy said.

 

 

“Mmm,” Goody agreed. Billy stood so Goody could. The others called their goodnights and made noises about bed themselves, it was late and God knew they had their work cut out for them.

 

 

They moved easily together, heading for the third-floor room, Goody a step behind him and hand on his back the first flight of stairs and half up the second before sliding a little lower not quite on his ass. The first thing Billy did was take the bit of wrapped cornbread from his pocket and sit it on the wooden crate used as a nightstand by the bed.

 

 

The room was small, the bed narrow, not enough room for two unless they were tangled together all but on top of one another.  The chest of drawers with the wash basin on it and their gear taking up a good amount of space as well, there was barely room to take two steps but they managed easily enough. A stolen kiss as Goody pulled the sharp ended hair pins from his hair. Sat on the dresser by their hats left above earlier.

 

 

“How are your hands, cher?”

 

 

“Sore, few blisters, but nothing to worry about.” Billy answered, systematically disarming and undressing while Goody watched.

 

 

“I’ll get the salve.”

 

 

“I…I’m seeing this one through, Goody.”

 

 

Goody stilled. “If you stay, I stay.”

 

 

Billy hoped so. Hoped Goody could keep counting his victories, remembering them.  Cutler was a victory, revenge, justice and perhaps the one kill that didn’t come back to haunt Goody. 

 

 

“You are wicked, you know that, cher,” Goody smiled, setting the little jar of salve down and reaching. Billy held out his hands, stark naked, having shed his boots knives and guns and clothes.

 

 

  
“You enjoy it.”

 

 

  
“Indeed, I do,” Goody worked Billy’s gloves off. Gloves were practical with his knives, no one questioned them, nor the cloth wrappings he’d often had around his hands when he hadn’t had leather gloves. Tendon had never been damaged thankfully, but rope burn had left his wrists and palms permanently scarred and the scars on his palms prone to being aggravated, blisters on occasions of overuse—such as digging pit traps most of the day--that healed but never calloused. “You need your hands for the battle, someone else can manage a shovel. Sam can put you on sorting out who goes where tomorrow, you’re good at that, better you than me. I’ll take the dig crew.”

 

 

Goody’s hands on his own nearly as wicked as Billy’s teasing tracing Chinese words on Goody’s thigh earlier. Carefully massaging the salve in with practiced surety.

 

 

“You all right?” Goody asked softly.

 

 

“Shouldn’t I be asking that?”

 

 

“Li Jie…” Goody murmured.

 

 

“I’m fine, Goody. Her memory is always too close this time of year.” Billy reassured him. Goody knew that too. There were very few pieces of Billy Goody hadn’t been given over the years, very few things left untold—and most of those details that would hurt Goody too badly to give. Goody knew everything of importance, knew all the broken and wary places, only left without knowledge of the details of how those pieces were broken because Goody was too gentle and soft-hearted for that.

 

 

“Think…”

 

 

“What?”

 

 

“Think that’s the worst of it, scared you’re using this to join her…”

 

 

“No.” Billy said firmly. “I can live without a limb, I can’t live without my soul. Ting is a missing limb. We were only children, trained together, everything together, never apart for years, everything we were taught was with the other at our side, with the other as half of the movement, half of the strike, half of the defense. I’ve learned how to fight and survive without that limb. You are my soul. You are everything. You are the one thing I’ll never survive the loss of.”

 

 

Goody leaned in and kissed him softly. “Get in bed, I’ll hurt one of us or break something trying to maneuver around you if you don’t.”

 

 

Goody wouldn’t, but it was still easier in the cramped space. Billy settled back on the bed and simply watched as Goody slowly eased out of his clothes. Aches of the day catching up and making themselves known with the alcohol numb lessening. Goody had actually eaten a fair amount and the last hour or so done more talking and not more than a sip to wet his mouth once or twice.

 

 

Billy let his eyes simply drink in Goody, how he was moving said he was more simply tired and sore than old injuries flaring and causing trouble.

 

  
“What?”

 

 

“Gray’s going white.” Billy smiled. The dark brown of Goody’s hair heavily threaded with dark steel and here and there a few silvery-white strands creeping in the steel-gray that had yet to take over the brown completely, maybe more white invading his chest than his beard and hair but it was gaining a foothold.

 

 

“Getting old.”

 

 

“I’m older.”

 

 

Goody laughed. “Go look in a mirror, cher. I think if I took my time I might find all of three gray hairs on you.”

 

 

Goody finally laid down, curling into and around Billy, who twined himself into the places that were his, years of practice in how they fit.

 

 

“Cher…” Goody whispered almost apologetically, drained and exhausted. Despite his laughing performance, the storytelling took its toll especially in the face of the coming battle.

 

 

Billy kissed the nearest bit of skin on Goody’s shoulder, settling in simply soaking up skin and Goody’s presence, hand drifting idly on Goody’s back. “Talked too late, tomorrow we’re going to bed early, less talk and less whiskey.”

 

 

 


End file.
